Dan was quite heartened, yet somewhat amazed when at least thirty other fellow passengers disembarked from the train at Fort William. He also noticed that every one of them was much better equipped than he for the current weather. A jolly group of climbers, dressed in hooded anoraks and breeches and gaudy coloured socks, strode towards him along the platform, making light of their weighty rucksacks, and even less of the freezing sleet that blew about the unsheltered station. As they passed by, they shot amused smiles at each other as they saw Dan struggle with already numbed fingers to do up the zip of his trendy but totally inadequate leather bomber jacket. He was glad that they weren’t around to witness his next move. He started out towards the station exit, with head bowed against the icy blast, and immediately stepped into a puddle that was deep enough to fill one of his Gucci loafers with congealed water. It was at that point that he almost felt like crying with frustration and misery. He stood on the platform, holdall in hand and leather shoulders sagging, wondering to himself what the hell he was doing there and wishing that he was back in the warm, familiar surroundings of good old Clapham.

He found a moderately sheltered bench in the lee of the ticket office and there took off his shoe and poured a rivulet of slush from its soft tan interior. He dried it out as best he could and then changed into his only spare pair of socks. By the time that he had finished, he was the only person on the platform, save for one extraordinary figure that stood by the exit, looking in his direction. He or she was dressed in a pair of black Wellington boots and a long red anorak with an attached hood, the drawstrings of which were pulled so tight about the face that it looked as if all necessary sensory functions were carried out by means of one rather large, red nose. Dan picked up his holdall and walked along the deserted platform towards the figure, and it was then that he was suddenly struck by its uncanny resemblance to the murderous Venetian dwarf in the film Don’t Look Now.

“Are you Dan Porter?” a voice mumbled deep within the hood.

“Yes.”

“Come on quickly, then. The van’s outside.”

There were no introductions, no pleasantries passed on how he had fared on the journey, no lighthearted apology for the state of the weather. At that precise moment, he almost felt like walking in completely the opposite direction to the obtuse, red-coated figure, seeking out a good hostelry, and staying there until such time as he could crawl, pissed out of his tiny mind, back onto the train for London.